


The Symphony in the Living Room

by orphan_account



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Gen or Pre-Slash, Inspired by Fanfiction, M/M, Mild AU of an AU, No Dialogue, POV John Watson, Pre-Slash, Probably overly descriptive, Purple Prose, Recursive Fanfiction, Sherlock Plays the Violin, Sherlock's Violin, We're Pretending This Is John Hearing Sherlock Play for the First Time
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-11-12
Updated: 2018-11-12
Packaged: 2019-08-22 14:05:15
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 378
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16599302
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: John had been listening to the whining sweetness of each note from the kitchen for over an hour.





	The Symphony in the Living Room

**Author's Note:**

  * For [wordstrings](https://archiveofourown.org/users/wordstrings/gifts).
  * Inspired by [Wider than a Mile](https://archiveofourown.org/works/555840) by [wordstrings](https://archiveofourown.org/users/wordstrings/pseuds/wordstrings). 



> [happens some not-so-distant, but still timeless time before wordstrings' beautiful "Wider than a Mile." i hope you like/feel ambivalently about this, wordstrings. i adore all of your work. i've been a big fan of your works for a long time. "Entirely Covered in Your Invisible Name" was the first fic of yours i ever fell in love with and coincidentally, it made me fall in love with radiohead. so really, this fic is just a Thank You from me to you !!]

John had been listening to the whining sweetness of each note from the kitchen for over an hour.

He'd stopped typing at least two hours ago, but his laptop was still open. The blue and white Word doc was still up and the cursor blinking. Originally, he had come down to put a pot on, but the symphony in the living room had begun and he hadn't wanted to interrupt. And now that wasn't even a thought to consider anymore.

The violin. Sherlock was playing again.

Moonlight dripped from the window. Soft, silver drips of it came into the room, falling into the rime of Sherlock's eyes. John could see him in there, just a bit. His suit still on-- one of the nicer tailored ones. His eyelashes, long, like the row of black buttons on his jacket. His skin, the same shade of pale as his shirt.

The sharpness of his face is astoundingly clear. He keeps moving, aborted step here, half-stop there. The music is  _sailingsailingsailing_  and then he stops playing. His head is pointed down. The curtaining of his eyelashes draws more shadows, more curvature to his cheek. The roundness of the buttons gleaming on his jacket is irregularly perfect and uniform. 

The only real softness is in his mouth.

It's a briefly jarring thought because John hadn't expected to think it, but it's true. Despite the words it issues forth to decimate the populace of London, Sherlock  _does_ have a beautiful mouth. It's a dry, sort of sweet pink-- all cupid's bow for a top and a thin bottom. It is a mouth that is nearly absurd on the man, but it works.

It is a strange balance.

John doesn't dwell on it. He continues staring, though. At the man, the violin, and the mouth-- a curious, little triad. 

Sherlock does not stand there forever. He begins to play again, although it is softer. More delicate. It is a springing, flowery caprice that he slowly steps to. Forward, away away. Forward, a half-turn, away away. Forward, away away...

He waltzes, playing all the way, to his bedroom. The door shuts softly behind him. Sherlock continues to play.

John sits there for a long, long while.  He doesn't type for the rest of the night. 


End file.
